


Sunrise, Sunset

by easiIyamused



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Found Family, Space anarchists, also manipulation, also swear words!!, classic gay gifted child behaviour, don't know what to tag, hitting a cactus, interesting parenting strategies, mag is not a good person but i don't think he's evil and that's fun to explore, tw for mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easiIyamused/pseuds/easiIyamused
Summary: “What else is in the new world, Pete?” It’s an old game from when Peter was tiny. Using childish selfishness to increase loyalty to the cause.“No cops. No guns. Food that doesn’t rot. Beds for everyone.”“Beds?”“Blue beds with green shiny covers.”...Mag and Peter on Brahma.
Relationships: Mag & Peter Nureyev
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	Sunrise, Sunset

“They’re rotten.”  
“They can’t be rotten, I got them fresh this morning.” Mag rolls his eyes and walks over to where Peter is sitting cross-legged in the dirt, examining the bag of apples Mag had bought back to their campsite from the village. It had been a long walk there, along the side of the freeway, speeders flicking dust into his dry eyes and making him wheeze. He’d dipped into the market, grabbed the first unattended bag he saw, and then dipped back out. More pressing was the matter of scouting out the Guardian Angel outpost that cast a shadow over the little town, familiarising himself with the layout, noticing weak spots. “Give them here,” he mutters. Peter does so, fixing Mag with a testy kind of stare. 

They are definitely rotten. There are still small pink sections, but the vast majority of the fruit have spots of black and are collapsing in on themselves. Shit. Mag makes a small gesture with his left hand and in a second Peter has passed him a small knife. Where had he got it from? Maybe teaching a thirteen-year-old how to conceal weapons in his clothes was a mistake. 

Mag sets about making small incisions into the apple he’s holding, scraping out the rot, and trying to leave the red intact. He holds the knife out to Peter, “You carry on like that, hm? It’ll be fine.” Peter purses his lips and rolls his eyes. Mag’s too tired for this, “what are you pulling faces for? It’s fruit and it’s perfectly fine to eat! For what are you so picky? When I was your age, my-”  
“-your tatti made you live on nothing but salted herring and black coffee, to strengthen your guts. But it wasn’t rotten herring, was it?” It’s such a teenage response, but he’s right. “Was it, Mag?” He won’t dignify that with a reply.  
“Eat your breakfast, Pete.”

When the sun reaches its peak, they walk into an area studded with cacti to practice knife work. Peter kicks his shoes off, wraps his hands and forearms in old rags, and stands with his legs bent and knife at the ready in front of a seven-foot cactus. Mag counts down from three in his head and then barks, “He pulls a blaster and aims it at your head!” Peter ducks down, then pushes up off the balls of his feet and slices both the plant’s appendages off in two fast, violent motions. “Kicks you in the shins-” Peter is somehow already at the cactus’ stomach, stabbing with such a sense of purpose. Mag usually does twenty of these directions in a row, one after the other. On the seventh, the knife slips and slashes Peter’s left palm. He cries out but keeps moving. “That was sloppy! Adjust your grip and then roundhouse kick to right ear!” Peter reels back, hops onto his right foot, and then begins kicking the left foot up and to the right, over and over. 

Peter looks dizzy. His kicks are sloppy. He keeps missing the ‘ear’. “Keep going!” Mag shouts.  
“I need a break, my hand-”  
“You don’t get breaks when some bootlicker is trying to kill you, come on!” A shadow falls over Peter’s face. He gives the cactus three perfect roundhouse kicks in the exact same spot. It’s ‘head’ cracks and falls off. Peter springs up, flicks his knife across the whole length of the plant, and then kicks it into two before pouncing onto half of it and stabbing until it’s not much more that a mess of white pulp tinged with the red dust of the desert and Peter’s blood. 

“Now do I get a break?” His face is a mask of quiet fury. Mag stares back at him.  
“You can’t pull shit like that, Pete.”  
“Why not? I killed it. Quicker than if we’d done the whole cycle. Problem solved.”  
“That’s not the point. It’s about practice, honing your skills-”  
“I don’t want to hone my skills, I want to eat!” Pete’s eyes are full of tears. The grey rag on his left hand is stained red. “I’m hungry, Mag.” 

When Mag found Peter, he was skin and bones. Like all the children on that street. Dead eyes and arms like twigs. Reptilian. Mag had given him some bread and he’d eaten it in seconds, tearing at it like an animal. He’s still underweight for his age. But shops and markets are infested with surveillance equipment, they can’t be seen in the same place more than twice and they move around so often that food is never a constant. Mag makes a mental note to stock up on nutri bars once this mission is complete. More food, fewer mutinies. Very simple. 

“Mag.” Peter is still staring at him.  
“Sorry, kiddo. I was miles away.” He doesn’t expect to be forgiven. “Let’s get your hand cleaned up, alright? Then we’ll walk to the village, get some food and then get the blueprints.”  
“But that’s three locations,” Peter says, looking suspicious, “they’ll have too much footage of us, it’ll be-”  
“Fine. It’ll be fine, we’ll just have to be extra careful at the outpost, hm? Maybe wear bandit hats.” Peter nods,  
“I like bandit hats.”  
“I know.”

After the long, dusty trek to the village, they position themselves at opposite ends of the market after agreeing to meet at the river in ten minutes. They whip through the stalls like a hurricane. Mag catches glimpses of Peter, weaving around people and animals and structures while grabbing various items and throwing them into his rucksack. It’s acrobatic, almost lyrical. 

They sit on the bank of the river, eating bread and cheese and peaches. Peter managed to swipe a few sodas, which he’s deliriously happy about. He pops the metal cap off with his teeth, pulls what looks like some sort of periodical out of his bag and sets about pouring over it while taking little sips of the frothing pink liquid. Mag can’t quite make out what the pictures are of, the sun’s in his eyes. “What you got?”  
“Brahmese Vogue,” Peter mumbles, using his bandaged hand to smooth out the glossy paper, “s’good.” Mag shifts over so he can see properly. Women in sparkling slip dresses. Women in suits in colours that remind Mag of the little cakes you get in New Kinshasa. Men in dresses. Shit. Does he need to have a talk with Pete? Really? Fucking shit.  
He looks at the boy’s face. At where his eyes are. He’s staring at the clothes, tracing the outlines of the dresses. Whispering the names of the designers, like he’s trying to commit them to memory. “In the new world-” Peter starts but falters, eyes still fixed on a loose white jumpsuit with a collar like something an ancient sailor would wear.  
“Go on.” Mag says. He wants to hear this.  
“In the new world. Everyone will have what they want to wear all the time. They’ll just have machines that make it for them. Everyone gets one.” Mag decides that it’s not the time for a lecture on the evils of materialism.  
“What else is in the new world, Pete?” It’s an old game from when Peter was tiny. Using childish selfishness to increase loyalty to the cause.  
“No cops. No guns. Food that doesn’t rot. Beds for everyone.”  
“Beds?”  
“Blue beds with green shiny covers.”  
“That sounds nice.”  
“It will be.” Mag squeezes his shoulder. 

The sting goes well. They get the blueprints, upload copies of them to the resistance comm channels and then burn the physical copies, all without so much as a scratch. As the sun sets they stand on the western highway, hitchhiking. Mag puts Peter’s left arm in a sling, mostly for the sympathy vote but also because then he won’t get any questions about the bloody hand. The last thing they need is child services in the mix. It’s a woman who picks them up, with a nineteen year old who must be her son riding shotgun and a baby in the back. She asks where they’re going, Mag tells her half an hour west and she nods. They hop in the back, by the baby. She asks Peter what happened to his arm. Like clockwork he tells her “I fell off my bike, ma’am.” Classic. Mag could just fall asleep, he’s in safe hands. Peter has names and stories for both of them, probably had them the second she pulled up. He makes small talk with the mother and son for half an hour. 

They pull up by a signpost with three spokes, one pointing back to the village, one to the city, and one to a woodland township. They have a week before they need to be at a meeting in the city. Woodlands it is. Mag hops out, quickly thanking the lady, stretches, and starts striding off until he hears the woman’s voice. “Levi? Your uncle’s going to make it home before you, sweetie, go on!” Mag whips around. Pete’s still in the fucking car. He must have hardly noticed it stopping. Mag can see his face through the window. He looks almost forlorn, resistant. Mag puts his pinky and thumb in his mouth and whistles so loudly that Peter bolts out of the door and over to him, barely turning around to wave goodbye. They start into the forest. Mag doesn’t even need to say anything, Peter’s already practically hanging his head in shame.

After twenty minutes of walking, Pete clears his throat. “Ethan’’s going to college.” Ethan? The son.  
“Oh?”  
“To be a doctor.”  
“That’s an important job, huh?” Peter nods in agreement. Mag’s not sure if Peter’s ever met a doctor. Certainly not a dentist.  
“Are doctors evil?”  
“Not all of them.”  
“Are colleges evil?”  
“Not usually. Depends where you are.”  
“Will I go to college?” It feels like someone’s moving their hand around in Mag’s chest. Like he’s a glove puppet.  
“Sure, Pete.” Liar. Liar. “You’d have to get a scholarship, though. I don’t have that kind of money.”  
“It costs money?”  
“Yeah, a lot. Most good things do in this world.” Peter nods again, solemnly. Mag can almost see the weight of the world on his shoulders. The burden of enlightenment.  
“...can I still go? Even though it costs money?” Peter has stopped walking and is looking Mag straight in the eyes. Mag feels evil.  
“Of course you can, Peter. You can do anything you want.” Peter’s face breaks into a smile.  
“In the new world, college will be free. I just decided.”  
“Well there you go.” Mag smiles softly, “problem solved.”

They set up camp in a clearing that looks like something out of a fairytale. All leaves and fireflies and fallen trunks that make good seats. Peter falls asleep moments after he lays down. Mag stays up, smoking and tending to the little fire they started to keep the bugs at bay. The amber light illuminates Peter’s face. Mag gazes at him, imagines his future. He could go to college for fashion or architecture or something like that. Have friends. Go to parties. He’d graduate with honors, he’s just that kind of person. Diligent to a fault. Mag imagines going to his graduation, cheering when his name is called, standing on his chair, feeling fit to burst with pride-

But none of that will ever happen. Peter will never be nineteen. Peter will never go to college. He’s not Mag’s son, or his nephew, or his anything. Not even the son of a friend. Peter is a talented child who Mag knew would be useful in bringing about a new era. A better world, without the Guardian Angel system, without New Krishinia, clean of evil. But neither of them will be there to enjoy it. Peter turns over in his sleep. Mag grits his teeth and reminds himself that Peter wouldn’t have even lived to thirteen if Mag hadn’t taken him on. There. He’s given him a chance. Extended his life. What’s more important, the lives of a thief and an orphan or the dissemination of totalitarianism? Mag is still sure of his answer, despite all this ‘happy families’ stuff. And if that makes him a bad person, he doesn’t care too much.

….

Three years later they’re camped on some hard shoulder on the highway to New Krishana. The suits they bought a few hours before they left Brahma are carefully folded and wrapped in plastic beside them. Peter is absentmindedly stroking his hand over the bag. In the tailor’s he’d been euphoric, almost breathless as he did up the button of the jacket and looked in the mirror. Mag’s worn suits before, in his old life, but it was still quite a thing to see himself looking almost kempt. Only his vaguely matted beard and long, scraggly hair give anything away. That reminded him.

Mag gestures and Peter hands him a knife, fast as lightning. Mag clears his throat, “Let’s get this over with, then.”  
“Right now? Why not in the morning?” Peter crosses his arms and tilts his head back as he speaks.  
“Better to get it over and done with. Come on.” Mag gestures to him again. Peter makes a huffing noise, but comes and sits in front of Mag nonetheless. Mag almost feels guilty. Peter loves his hair, loves braiding it and putting it up all fancy. At the moment it’s in two thick plaits which reach past his shoulders. But it has to go. It’ll make him stick out like a sore thumb in the city. So Peter sits very still while Mag hacks at his hair with a sharp obsidian blade. He tries to leave the front a little longer so that Pete isn’t completely bereft, but still manages to end up with a sort of bowl cut. “Done.” 

When Peter looks into his little pocket mirror, Mag can see that he’s trying not to look so disappointed. He forces a smile, uses his index finger to part his hair down the middle and says “it could be worse!” In his best cheery, breezy voice. Mag snorts,  
“Shit, man, if those are the acting skills you’re going to use on the Guardians then we’re fucked!” Peter grimaces and apologises. Mag meant to make him laugh. Ugh. He doesn’t know how to apologise, so he just hands Peter the knife and sits down. How he manages to give Mag a short back and sides with a knife used for gutting pigs is beyond Mag. He even manages to trim his beard to a sensible length. When he’s done, Pete stands back, hands on his hips, and smirking. “Alright, boy wonder, no need for that. Let’s get some practice in.” Mag says, ruffling Peter’s new short hair and passing him his sparring knives.

They started sparring properly last year when Pete finally stopped nicking or slashing his hands and arms every time he used a proper blade. Sometimes Mag has a blaster or his fists or a riot baton, but Peter always uses knives. He can shoot well and he’s strong, but he works best with a knife. He bends his knees and grins, ready to go. Mag levels a punch at his forehead. Peter ducks and skids to the left, but doesn’t take the clear shot he has at Mag’s waist, opting instead to try to kick his feet out from under him. Mag rolls his eyes and grabs Peter’s left leg before he can make contact with Mag’s ankle. He holds him a foot off the ground for a half a second before dropping him. Peter comes down like a sack of potatoes, cussing and spitting before rolling backward and up into a better stance. Mag lunges for his neck and Peter weaves around him, managing to get an arm around his neck. Mag calls them to halt. 

“What did you do wrong?” He asks. Peter raises an eyebrow.  
“Nothing? I won?” Mag frowns.  
“You’re not an idiot, Peter, so don’t act like one. What did you do wrong?” He’s being harsh, but it’s tomorrow. Everything they’ve worked for for a decade ends tomorrow and Peter is lying to him. Peter has his eyes fixed on the ground. When he speaks his voice is high and taught,  
“I… didn’t stab when I could have. That’s what.” Mag nods,  
“You think you can strangle an armed guard? Really? Do you think you have the luxury of not giving out the hits you can give? For what have I been teaching you if you refuse to listen?” Peter keeps staring at the floor. Mag doesn’t have time for this shit. “Come on, we’ll go another round.” 

Next round is much better, but Peter’s still not quite getting there. His grip on the blade is too weak, his usual gymnastic displays limited. He’s reeling back for another hit when Mag sees that he’s let his guard down and pushes him in the chest. Peter goes flying. He still weighs almost nothing and his legs weren’t bent enough to keep him steady. He lands on his back, but doesn’t get up. Mag wants to stamp on his leg, force him to wake the fuck up. But that won’t work. There must be a reason for why he’s being so sloppy. 

Mag walks over to where Peter’s prone in the dirt, staring upwards. Mag follows his gaze. The sky is full of thousands of little rhinestone stars. You can’t see the stars on Brahma. Too polluted. They are silent for a moment before Peter breaks it. “I’m really sorry, Mag.”  
“Don’t be sorry, just be better.”  
“No- I was doing it on purpose. I knew what I was doing wrong, and I still did it. I meant to. I’m sorry.” Mag looks down at him. He’s developed a little line on his brow bone. It ages him. He looks like he could be fourteen or forty sometimes, Peter. “I just- I really didn’t want to hurt you. We’re nearly there and I just didn’t want to fuck it all up.” Mag sighs.  
“Shit, Pete, you should’ve just said.” He holds out an arm. Peter takes it and is pulled up.

Mag puts both hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me now, alright? When we spar, it’s not me you’re fighting. It’s them. Don’t think about me, don’t think about you. We don’t matter. We are a means to the end of this nightmare. Tomorrow we’re going to bring divine justice down on the people who, who killed your father, who ruined my life, who ruin thousands of lives every day! Don’t think about me. You don’t need me. I could get shot tomorrow, I could get arrested and you would have to keep going, no matter what. If you’re worrying about me tomorrow, how will you stop them?”  
“I won’t.”  
“There you go. Good man. Let’s fight.” Peter nods, steely composure returned to his face. They move about a metre apart and get ready. Just before he draws a gun to pistol whip the kid, Mag shouts “Think about the new world, Peter!” 

That’s all he needs to say. Peter wins all eighteen of their sparring sessions within the first minute and a half. As he works he mutters to himself. Mag only catches sections of the mumblings- “No cops. No blackleg. No Guardians. No more death.” Just before Peter flips Mag over by his arm and holds a knife to his throat in the final round, Mag sighs contentedly. He’s ready. 

...

It must be around midnight. Peter’s washing his face and hair with a hipflask of water. Mag is smoking and listening to his little DAB radio. They both hum along. Peter dries his hair with a shirt he outgrew a few years ago. It’s almost a normal evening. Mag inhales deeply, sings along properly to the last few bars of the song. It’s an ancient rebel standard, now only played on earth stations that it takes him hours to tune in to. Worth it. The breeze is soft on his face. 

Mag becomes dimly aware that he’s being stared at. Peter is standing a few meters away from him, staring. Not vacantly, not intently, just looking. Mag is about to ask what’s up when suddenly Pete’s hugging him. Leaning his head onto Mag’s shoulder. He’s not quite doing it right, as if he doesn’t know where to put his hands or how relaxed he should be, but he’s trying. 

Mag thinks of the little boy who he saved from an oncoming police speeder in a Brahmese Slum. How he nearly bit Mag’s finger off getting away from him. How at six he already knew to use his height to his advantage, ducking and weaving masterfully, like it was second nature. How he learned whole languages in mere weeks. How he figured out how to tap water from trees when Mag was going insane from dehydration in a jungle. How he did everything with care and precision and power. How he had grown into the perfect revolutionary. How Peter Nureyev is an exceptional human being in every way and what a shame it is that the world won’t get more of him. He hugs him back, tighter. 

Peter lets go and steps back, not looking at Mag as he sits down on his bedroll. “What was that for?” Mag asks. Peter just shrugs and lies down. Mag laughs under his breath, turns the radio up. It’s a different song now. A song that’s sad and hopeful at the same time, all soft guitars and kind voices.  
“I love this song.” Peter pulls his sleeping bag up and over his shoulders and lies looking up at the sky.  
“Me too, kiddo.” 

…

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Peter was looking at photos of a collection that resembles Gucci's spring/summer 2019 collection, specifically these pieces:  
> https://vg-images.condecdn.net/image/AQVX9w2dPm2/crop/405/portrait/f/002.jpg  
> https://www.fashiongonerogue.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/Gucci-Spring-Summer-2019-Runway17.jpg  
> https://hips.hearstapps.com/hmg-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/images/look16-1537828769.png
> 
> 2\. At the end, they're listening to 'Blowing in the wind' by Bob Dylan and then 'Father and son' by Yusuf Islam/Cat Stevens. Because you know. 
> 
> 3\. I've just finished season two and so don't know what is going to happen next and this might not fit with canon established in season three! So I'm sorry. I just wrote this because I really love Peter and this dynamic and wanted to write something. I'm going to start season three tomorrow.
> 
> 4\. Lots of Mag's characterisation in this is inspired by the kvetch-y old Jewish men in my life and in books said men have made me read. So like. They're Jewish in this.
> 
> 5\. Hello gay people with no sense of self who love projecting onto Peter Nureyev to cope. How are you? I love you!
> 
> 6\. Thanks for reading!!


End file.
